


Gimme Shelter

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Control - Freeform, Full Shift Werewolves, Getting Together, M/M, Peter gets stuck in shift, Steter Secret Santa 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27929680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Stiles just wanted to check Peter was okay, what with the fires coming so close to his apartment.He didn't expect to find out that Peter had gone and gotten himself stuck in full shift and captured by animal control.Well, shit.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 74
Kudos: 1167





	Gimme Shelter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [for_the_love_of_wolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/gifts).



> this is my Steter Secret Santa for For-the-love-of-wolves.  
> I hope you like it!

He’s just going to check, Stiles tells himself. It’s what he’d do for any member of the pack if there were fires close to their home. He deliberately doesn't think about the fact that he’s the only one of the pack apart from Derek who even knows where Peter lives. He’s not meant to know, but he definitely knows because he made it his business to know, and Peter knows that he knows, but they both pretend that neither of them know what the other one knows. It’s part of the weird unnamed thing that’s going on between them that Stiles refuses to call attraction, whatever his dick has to say on the matter at 3 am when he’s half-asleep and horny.

Anyway.

The point is, those spot fires are awfully close to the upscale apartments Peter lives in on the outskirts of town, and it's _Peter_ , and it’s _fire,_ so Stile is just going to...check in, that’s all. Peter’s probably fine, but Stiles will feel happier if he knows for sure. He squints through the lingering smoke. Even though the fires have been pretty much doused, the air’s still much hazier than he expected, and he wonders if Peter’s even home. He doubts Peter would subject himself to this much smoke—not with his sensitive wolf nose, not with his history.

He parks the jeep and jumps out, and only hesitates a moment before he pushes the doors open and walks to Peter’s apartment. It’s ground floor, which surprises Stiles. He’d assumed Peter would want to be on the top floor, where he could look down on everyone else.

He raps on the door twice, short and sharp, and then stands there, shifting from foot to foot in ...excitement? Concern? Anticipation? He's not sure which. All three, probably. Turning up on Peter’s doorstep is uncharted territory. Still, he’s here now, and if Peter’s here and he’s fine, maybe Stiles can get a look at the inside of his apartment and mock his furniture choices.

After a minute goes by and there’s no reply, he knocks again and calls out, “Peter? You okay dude?”

There’s once again no reply and he sighs. It looks like he drove over here for nothing, and now he’ll go back to pretending he doesn’t know this place exists. He’s just turning to leave when the apartment door opposite swings open and an attractive woman with a small child clinging to her skirts says, “He’s not here. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“Oh.”

Stiles slumps a little. Of course Peter’s not here. His self preservation instincts are ridiculously strong. He raised himself from the dead—he'd never stay where he’s in danger. He’s far too clever for that. And while Stiles is glad Peter’s okay, part of him is disappointed. He’d kinda liked the idea of turning up and Peter being touched that Stiles had thought of him, and maybe inviting him in.

Okay, the attraction isn't _just_ at 3 a.m. So sue him. Peter’s hot and clever and something of an asshole, all qualities Stiles finds extremely attractive. Thanks,” he says, and he’s about to walk away when the little girl peeks out and says, “There was a scary doggie. It was big, and a man took it away.”

Stiles stops dead. Since when does Peter have a _dog?_ He crouches down so he’s on eye level with the kid. “Where was the doggie?”

“It was prowling around his front door,” the mother answers. “I’ve never seen it before, but it was snapping and snarling at anyone who came near. I called animal control, because it was huge. Some sort of wolfhound.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “And it was just there on its own?” he asks carefully.

The woman’s face scrunches up in thought. “You know it was weird, but it had...clothes with it? Some pants and a shirt, a pair of shoes. Lord knows where it got them from. Maybe your friend’s a werewolf who got caught short!” She lets out a tinkling laugh and Stiles joins in, and if his laugh’s a little hysterical, well he thinks he can be forgiven.

Because instantly, his mind goes back to a conversation he’d had once with Deaton about full-shift wolves, where Stiles had asked half-jokingly if a wolf could ever get stuck, and Deaton had said, “Actually, yes, in times of extreme stress.”

Extreme stress like say, a man who’s been burned alive (twice) being trapped in a fire zone.

Stiles knows exactly what’s happened. Peter’s freaked out, wolfed out, and then gotten locked out. And now he’s at animal control, which is fine, it’s fine. Probably.

“When did they take him?” he asks, knowing there’s a twenty-four hour window where they’ll try and track Peter's ‘owner’ before taking any other action.

“Early yesterday morning,” the woman says. “It was the howling that woke us up.” Her nose wrinkles. “I just can’t get over what a big dog it was. I certainly hope it isn’t Peter’s. It’s far too large for apartment living.”

“I think he mentioned something about watching a dog for a friend,” Stiles lies, and her worried expression smooths out. He scuffs his feet against the tiles and clears his throat. “I’m gonna go.”

And then he hightails it out of there and drives to the animal shelter in town like the devil himself is hot on his heels, his urgency caused by two disturbing facts.

It’s been longer than twenty four hours.

Beacon Hills animal shelter isn’t no-kill.

* * *

Stiles tries calling the shelter but it goes unanswered, and after three tries he gives up and just drives. It still takes him far longer than he’d like to get back from the outskirts of Beacon Hills into town. First there are detours and delays on the road because of the fires which are still active in small pockets, and it takes forever to get three miles.

Then he gets a lecture from an out of town deputy doing traffic control who doesn’t recognize him, telling him all about how kids like him making unnecessary trips are a hazard and how he should be avoiding the area. His fingers drum on the steering wheel while he pretends to listen.

He’d be _happy_ to avoid the area, he thinks, if this moron would just let him get out of here. He does his best to bite his tongue but he must roll his eyes or something. Scratch that—he definitely does roll his eyes, it’s just that Deputy Dipshit catches him doing it. The deputy’s eyes narrow. “Out of the car, kid.”

“What? No,” he says without thinking.

“Oh, you’re gonna have an attitude?”

“No, I just don’t have time for this.”

The man’s eyes narrow further. “Don’t like cops, huh?”

Stiles chokes back a laugh. “What? Noo, I love cops. In fact—”

“You wanna think about whatever’s about to come out of that smart mouth, kid. Now get out, turn around, and put your hands above your head.”

“Listen, I don’t know who you are, but I think you should know—”

 _“Out. Of The. Car.”_ The words are bitten off, harsh.

Stiles swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and gets out of the car. It’s bullshit, but compliance is probably the fastest way to get this over and done with.

He’s just placing his hands on his head when a familiar voice calls. “Stiles?” and Jordan Parrish comes striding over. Stiles has never been so glad to see anyone in his life.

“You know this kid?” Deputy Dumbass asks.

Jordan gives him a flat look. “Sure do. Now, you wanna tell me why it looks like you were about to frisk _the sheriff’s son?”_

The man swallows. “What? I didn’t—”

Honestly, normally Stiles would love to hang around to see how this plays out, but he doesn’t have time for this, not today. He has places to be, a wolf to rescue. “Jordy,” he breaks in, “I gotta go. Peter’s dog’s been impounded and I need to claim it before anything bad happens to it.” Jordan’s brow furrows. "You know, his _wolfhound?”_ Stiles prompts.

Stiles sees the exact second Jordan gets what he’s telling him. His eyes widen and he says, “Oh! In that case, let me escort you to town.” It’s with no small satisfaction that Stiles pushes past the other officer and clambers back into his jeep.

Jordan jumps in his cruiser and drives ahead of him, leading him past the other waiting cars and onto the road into town, and Stiles heaves a sigh of relief. He checks his watch and sees it’s been almost an hour since he set out from Peter’s, and around thirty-two hours since Peter was impounded.

It wouldn’t be an issue normally, but Stiles knows from talking to Scott, who took over running the vets when Deaton retired, that there have grumblings about the new management at the shelter—that sometimes, if a dog’s too big, too aggressive, too much trouble, they've been known to jump the gun and euthanize it early, then claim it was an administrative error. The thing is, Scott claims it's happened too often for it to be an accident every time. And if anyone was ever going to be the sort of animal who was a great big pain in the ass? It would definitely be Peter.

Stiles just hopes he’s not too late. He tries not to imagine Peter stuck in full shift, half mad with fear and being approached with a needle. He wishes he could be confident that Peter could defend himself, but he _just doesn’t know._ If he’s stuck in shift, would Peter even recognize the threat for what it was? And if he did, could he do anything about it, or would he be left cowering in the corner, pissing himself in fear before the end came?

Sour bile gathers in the back of Stiles’s throat at the thought of it.

He pulls up at the shelter and scrambles out of his jeep, then bursts through the doors and leans against the counter. “You had a dog brought in really big, almost wolf size, from those apartments over on Elm yesterday?” he pants out.

The man behind the counter is leaning back in his chair, boots propped up on his desk as he flips through a tattered paperback. He has piggy little eyes set in a fat-jowled face, and Stiles dislikes him instantly. “Big black thing?” He drawls.

“Sure,” Stiles says, because what are the odds of it being anyone else?

The man runs a hand through his thinning hair and gives a smile that’s all yellowed teeth, and it’s not kind. “Vicious, that one. Dangerous. You’re too late.”

Stiles's heart pounds faster in his chest, and it feels like time stops. “No,” he whispers.

“Yep. It's been gone a couple of hours. Shoulda picked your mutt up sooner.” The man looks _so fucking smug_ , and its that, more than anything, that makes a tiny, dark, part of Stiles’s brain—the vicious, dark part that never quite left him after the nogitsune—surge to the fore, and Stiles wants to drag that fat, smug fucker from his desk, punch his _fucking face in_ , pound him into the dirt, hit him and hit him and _hit him_ —

He doesn’t realize he’s advancing with clenched fists till the man’s eyes widen. “What the hell, kid?”

 _“What the fuck did you do?”_ Stiles growls out, and it _is_ a growl—a side effect of time spent with wolves. One _particular_ wolf, and if this guy’s hurt Stiles’s wolf, then Stiles will have _vengeance_ —

The man scrambles to his feet, paperback falling to the floor. “Calm down, kid! I was just kidding!”

Stiles continues to advance, but his fists unclench the tiniest bit. “What do you mean, kidding _?_ ” he demands, heart beating faster as adrenaline floods through him at the spark of hope the man’s offering.

The man has his back pressed against the wall behind the desk. “Sheriff’s got him! Collected him about half an hour ago! Said he knows the owner!”

Stiles’s fists unclench further, and he _pushes_ that dark part of him back down. It’s not what he needs right now. “Where was he taking him?”

“He said home. I dunno. Listen kid, your dog’s fine, okay? Just—get out of here.”

Stiles nods sharply. “Don’t think this is over,” he says, and he means it. Heads are gonna roll over this. But that’s for later. For now? He needs to find Peter.

* * *

  
He slams in through the front door of his house. “Dad! Do you—”

His father silences him from his seat on the couch with a finger to his lips and points to the two-hundred-odd pounds of giant black wolf sprawled across his lap, but it’s too late. Peter’s head jerks up and he startles awake with a growl.

“Yeah yeah, big bad wolf, I know,” John says, and ruffles Peter’s fur. The growling stops and Peter settles his head back down in John's lap with a whimper. His dad keeps stroking him calmly, and Stiles gets the feeling he’s been doing it for a while now.

Stiles's heart does a complicated sort of flip-flop in his chest at the sight of Peter, alive and whole with his head laying in his father’s lap. “Peter?” he says quietly, still not quite able to believe it. Peter’s tail thumps once against the couch but he doesn’t move. “The guy at the shelter, he said I was too late, and I thought…”

“That asshole,”John growls. Peter raises his head long enough to make a noise of agreement before plopping it right back in John’s lap.

“How did you know Peter was there?” Stiles asks.

John gives a rueful smile. “Got a call from Parrish, said you were on your way to the shelter but it might be faster if I went.” He wipes a hand across a drool patch on his shirt. “Dammit, Peter. If I’d known you were gonna drool I would have left you there,” he mock-grumbles, and Peter’s tail thumps once against the cushions and he gives an apologetic-sounding whine. John lets out a sigh. “Apex predator my ass. He planted himself on me and now he won’t move.” Peter somehow manages to look embarrassed.

Stiles approaches slowly. “Yeah, it's a stress response. Deaton told me about it once.” Stiles has never been more grateful for the fact he actually listened to Alan’s lecture on what to do for a shift-stuck wolf.

"Hey, Peter. You wanna get off my dad?”

Peter’s ears flatten against his head and he buries his face in John’s lap. John sighs again. “I think he’s still freaked out.” He squirms uncomfortably. “Come on, Peter, get your ass off me. I gotta pee.”

Stiles bites his lip. It isn’t funny, except it kind of is. “Come on, Peter. Let the old man up, huh?”

Peter huffs and stands, and his dad wiggles out from under him and bolts for the bathroom. Peter stays standing on the couch, looking pointedly at Stiles and then at the vacant spot, and then at Stiles again. Stiles waits to see what he’ll do, and Peter turns his head and butts it against Stiles’s leg gently.

Trauma response, Stiles thinks again. Peter’s skin-hungry and needs the comfort of touch, and he must be desperate if he’s willing to admit it. Stiles could play dumb, make him beg. Except that would be a dick move, and Peter's been through enough today.

Stiles sits down and Peter’s head is in his lap almost instantly. Stiles runs a hand though Peter’s thick fur. “Wow, you’re gorgeous. Terrifying, but gorgeous.” Peter lets out a chuff of agreement. He obviously understands every word Stiles is saying. His forelegs are across Stiles’s lap pinning him down, and Stiles can sense the tension leaving the wolf as he settles his head between his paws. “We’re just gonna sit here, huh? Fine, but if you start licking your balls I'm out.” Peter lets out a tiny growl, then licks a stripe up Stiles’s face in response. “Gross!” But he knows he earned it, and reminds himself not to make dog jokes again.

They sit there for a while and Stiles pets Peter, making soothing noises, talking nonsense. He can hear his father puttering about in the kitchen, and when he comes back he’s holding a coffee mug. John nods at Peter. “Doesn't look like he missed me. Seems like he’s happier with you.”

Peter makes a warbling sound of agreement, although it’s muffled by Stiles’s lap, and Stiles probably shouldn’t feel as flattered as he does by being Peter’s emotional support human of choice, but he still gets a warm glow in his chest.

“Hey what were you doing at Peter’s place anyway?” his dad asks suddenly.

Stiles bites his lip. “I was worried about him, what with the fires on that side of town.”

His dad raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you cared that much.”

Stiles feels his cheeks heat. “Yeah, well,” he mumbles, and doesn't explain further.

The look his father gives him says he understands anyway.

Peter’s watching them intently, and Stiles can see the intelligence in those eyes. “I might take Peter back to his place, wait out the shift there,” he says in a clumsy effort to get his dad to drop the subject. “What do you say?” he asks Peter.

He remembers from his conversation with Deaton that familiar surroundings and scents can help with getting a shift-stuck wolf to turn back. Peter tilts his head and makes a pleased chuffing noise.

His dad raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like that’s a yes. You got keys?”

“I can—” Stiles bites back the words _break in_ , and his dad gives him A Look.

“I’m gonna assume the rest of that sentence is ‘get a spare from the super’,” he says drily.

Stiles nods like a bobble head. “Yep, uh huh, that was definitely what I was going to say.”

John's eye roll is fond. “Get out of here, you little criminal, and take this idiot with you.” Peter huffs indignantly and stares hard at John, who ignores him.

Stiles shoves at Peter. “Come on, you.” He shoves again, and Peter finally slides off the couch. He grabs Stiles’s wrist between strong jaws that could crack bones probably, and tugs Stiles gently towards the door.

His dad says, “You gonna stay with him till he shifts back?”

“Yeah, I guess. Unless you want me to call Derek or someone?” he asks Peter.

Peter growls and his teeth tighten imperceptibly on Stiles’s wrist.

His dad’s eyebrows raise. “I’m gonna go ahead and say you’re staying.”

“Looks like it,” Stiles agrees, and the teeth loosen. ”How can you be so damn bossy when you can’t even talk?” he grumbles, and then he feels bad, because it’s not Peter's fault. It’s just his wolf making sure he gets taken care of.

Peter huffs through a mouthful of wrist and tugs again, and Stiles follows obediently.

* * *

After a quick stop to grab a couple of burgers each (because Stiles is starving and apparently Peter is too—he devours his burgers in two bites each and then licks the paper clean and man, Stiles is gonna tease the everloving hell out of him later for his wolf’s lack of manners), they make it back to Peter’s. Stiles doesn’t even get to make fun of Peter’s furniture, it turns out, because although it’s obviously expensive, it’s also tasteful. It looks as comfortable as hell.

Not that Stiles would know, because once the tumblers on Peter’s locks click and the door opens (it’s not breaking and entering if the owner’s standing next to you, even if he’s panting, right?) they bypass the furniture completely. As soon as they step inside, Peter immediately starts tugging at his hand and dragging him towards the bedroom.

Stiles pulls his hand back and says, “Yeah yeah, bossywolf. Gimme a minute.” Truth be told, Stiles isn’t sure how he feels about getting into bed with Peter. Even though he’d been expecting it, because Peter must be exhausted by now, it’s more intimate than he’s emotionally prepared for. But then Peter whines, his ears flatten, and his tail tucks up between his legs like someone just mentioned a trip to the vet, and how can Stiles say no?

“Fine” he sighs, ‘But I get the left side of the bed.”

Peter hops up on the right side and stares at him, waiting. He tilts his head to the side and gives Stiles a pleading look and Stiles can just imagine Peter's voice, cajoling, teasing. _For me, sweetheart?_

Stiles would like to say it’s because Peter’s literal puppy dog eyes are irresistible, but the fact is, Stiles is still more shaken than he’d like to admit by that earlier, heart-stopping moment when he thought Peter had been euthanized. Maybe Peter’s not the only one who needs the comfort of touch right now.

He slips off his shoes and strips down to his boxers because he has some vague idea about skin to skin being better—or is that hypothermia? Shit, it is. It’s a moot point anyway—if he puts his shirt back on now it’ll just be weird, right? He crawls up the bed and settles with his back propped up against a stack of pillows with some vague notion of reading on his phone while Peter lays next to him, but Peter obviously has very different ideas. He plants a broad paw on Stiles chest and _shoves_ , and Stiles finds himself sliding downwards until he’s laying flat on his back. Peter leans in and licks around Stiles’s chest, tongue rough and hot against his flesh, and before Stiles can object, he flops across Stiles’s belly, the weight of him as solid and immovable as a sack of dirt. Unlike a sack of dirt though, Peter's weight is warm and comforting.

Peter lets out a yawn and closes his eyes, and even though Peter’s hot and heavy and Stiles doubts he’ll be able to sleep, he doesn’t have the heart to try and move him. “You’re just gonna stay there all night huh, cuddlewolf?” he mutters. Peter lets out a sleepy rumble in return, and Stiles could swear the wolf is smiling.

He closes his own eyes, and once he adjusts, it turns out that far from being oppressive, Peter’s just like one of those expensive weighted blankets Stiles has always wanted to try. Stiles barely has time to stroke his fingers half a dozen times through Peter’s fur before he’s drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

  
When Stiles wakes there’s daylight filtering round the edges of the blinds, and he’s trapped under the weight of a warm body. A warm, _naked_ body. Sometime in the night Peter must have shifted back and is now sprawled over top of him, his head burrowed into the curve of Stiles's neck, legs loosely intertwined with Stiles’s. Peter's breath is warm against his skin and his hair is tousled and unexpectedly wavy, and Stiles kind of wants to keep him.

It's all his fantasies come to life, and even though it probably makes him a bad person, instead of waking Peter up he lets himself lay there and enjoy it for a while, imagining that it’s real. They can't stay like that forever though, and Stiles knows the moment Peter wakes, because his breath catches and his entire body goes as taut as a bowstring before he rolls quickly to one side, back facing Stiles, spine a long line of tension.

“Stiles,” he says almost formally, like he hasn’t just woken up plastered all over him like a human octopus. There's something off in Peter’s tone, and Stiles frowns before his tired brain catches up and he realizes that Peter’s _embarrassed_ about last night.

Of course he is. Stiles’s heart squeezes as he tries to imagine how Peter must be feeling, having woken up in bed wrapped around Stiles naked, and more than that, knowing that Stiles has seen him at his most vulnerable—the mighty Peter Hale, trapped in full shift. Peter's probably trying to think of a way to kick him out right now.

And Stiles gets it, he does. But while he waited for Peter to wake up, Stiles decided that he’d come too close to losing him to waste any more time dancing around this thing between them. So before Peter has a chance to pull any of his bullshit, Stiles squeezes Peter's forearm lightly and nuzzles up against the back of his neck, which is absolutely cheating because he knows wolves are sensitive there. “Lemme guess,” he murmurs against Peter’s skin, and doesn’t miss the shudder that runs through him, ”you’re laying there all horrified at showing weakness and now you’re gonna try and kick me out so you can lick your wounded pride, just because you got stuck as a wolf, drooled on my dad, and probably had to pee in the yard?”

There’s a moment’s silence, and then a muffled “...maybe,” from where Peter's face is buried in his pillow.

Stiles hums and starts running his fingers up and down Peter's forearm, soft and soothing. “Deaton said it only happens under extreme stress, so you must have been pretty freaked out by the fires,” he says. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

Peter sighs and there's a silence before he settles one of his hands on top of Stiles’s and squeezes softly as he begins to speak. “I was already on edge," he says. "I was in a hurry to leave and I’d stepped outside, but I left my keys on the counter, and then someone opened the door to the building and a gust of wind blew the apartment door shut. But more than that, it blew in ash and smoke and I just—”

“Panicked?” Stiles asks quietly.

“It was the ash,” Peter says. “The taste of it in the air. I shifted instinctively.”

Stiles can only imagine it. “And then you were stuck, and you were this big giant scary beast, and someone called animal control.” Stiles pulls back and tugs at Peter's shoulder in an effort to get him to turn over, because he wants to see his face. Peter rolls over, and his expression is guarded. “That must have been fucking terrifying,” Stiles says quietly. “I’m sorry you went through that.”

Peter swallows once or twice.“It wasn’t my finest moment, and I'd quite like to put the entire incident behind me,” he says in a clipped tone, and Stiles knows he’s done talking about it. “What I'm more interested in is what you were doing at my apartment?” he says. It's a blatant attempt by Peter to move the conversation away from any further discussion of his vulnerabilities, and Stiles decides to just go with it. 

“I was worried about my favorite wolf,” he says. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, and it’s a good thing I checked.”

Peter arches a brow and looks vaguely offended. “You do realize I was never in actual danger, Stiles? If it came to it, I could have ripped that man’s throat out.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t _know_ that. I didn’t know how aware you were while you’re shifted. And that asshole at the shelter, he lied. He said I was too late, and—”Stiles’s voice cracks as the memory of last night’s panic and fury washes over him and threatens to overwhelm him. “I thought they _killed_ you,” he whispers brokenly around the lump in his throat.

Stiles immediately finds himself wrapped in strong arms and pulled close to Peter’s chest, and it’s ass-backwards, Peter being the one to comfort _him_ , but Stiles still lets himself be held, taking deep shuddering breaths as Peter strokes his hair and says, “Shhh, sweetheart. I promise I’m fine.”

Stiles presses his face into the curve of Peter’s neck, and notes that Peter's relaxed now, having shed his earlier tension. _Of course he has_ , Stiles thinks wryly. _Peter would only relax when he’s back in control_. That doesn’t mean Stiles doesn’t snuggle in close though, letting Peter’s steady heartbeat and solid presence soothe him. Peter really is fine, and knowing that, Stiles discovers that he's fine too.

Peter strokes his hair and the back of his neck until his heart's stopped racing, and then the mood changes subtly, and the touches change too. They go from comforting to something more, and a warm palm slides down his neck and skates across his shoulders. The feel of Peter’s hands on his bare skin is just as good as Stiles always imagined, but then Peter pulls back and tilts Stiles’s chin up so he’s looking into his eyes—eyes that hold the same sharp intelligence that they had as a wolf. “Am I really your favorite, Stiles?” he asks, a little too casually. Stiles recalls that Peter heard his conversation with his dad yesterday, and knows what he’s really asking.

He bites his lip as he gazes into Peter's impossibly blue eyes and only hesitates a second before answering. “Obviously. I gotta say though, this whole thing was a pretty dramatic way to get me into your bed. You could have just asked.”

“So what I’m hearing is that if I _did_ ask you to bed, you’d say yes?” Peter asks, and he sounds...hopeful.

Stiles takes a second to answer. He doesn't want to do this if Peter just wants a fling. Although now he thinks about it, Peter’s not given to those, is he? Still, Stiles wants to be sure. He leans in closer, letting his lips graze Peter's in the merest hint of a kiss—a tease—before pulling back. “It depends. I don’t do one night stands.” He catches Peter’s gaze, willing him to understand. “So bearing that in mind, are you still interested?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Peter uses his strength to flip them over but it’s playful, gentle. Stiles’s back hits the bed, and Peter crawls up his body and settles over him, propped on his elbows. He buries his face in the crook of Stiles neck, scenting him deeply before raising his head, grinning like the cat that got the cream. The wolf that got the bone. One of those, anyway. “Of course I’m interested. I’ve always liked you, Stiles.”

Stiles tangles one hand in Peter's hair and tugs him down for a proper kiss. Peter obliges, moaning in a way that’s gratifying and arousing all at once. They make out for long minutes, Stiles reveling in the scrape of stubble and the taste of wolf, and when Stiles finally pulls back Peter’s eyes are heavy-lidded, his pupils blown, his lips red and kiss-plumped. He looks all sorts of tempting and part of Stiles really wants to reach down, wrap a hand around Peter's cock, and fulfill all of his 3 a.m. fantasies.

But he doesn't, because that's not what's important right now. Instead he reaches a hand up, sliding it down Peter's jaw possessively. “That's a yes.”

“I'm glad to hear it,sweetheart,” Peter purrs and he smiles broadly. His obvious delight causes the corners of his eyes to crease attractively and Stiles wants to swoon at the sheer hotness of it.

“So you’re my wolf, now,” he says, grinning.

“And you're mine,” Peter says, and then there’s kissing and scenting and Peter's hips rolling are sinfully against him as they make out some more, and the hard length pressed against the crease of his thigh reminds Stiles that Peter is wonderfully, gloriously _naked,_ (not that he ever really forgot, because _come on_ ), and Stiles is definitely gonna explore that more in the very near future.

For now though, they stick to making out like horny teenagers, and by the time they pull apart Peter's sucked a dark bruise into the skin of Stiles's collarbone. He seems fascinated by it, rubbing his thumb back and forth over it. “I like how you look wearing my marks,” he purrs.

"Possessive," Stiles teases, grinning wildly because he's in Peter's bed and in Peter’s life, and it looks like he’s getting to stay there.

"Of course. Now that I have you, I intend to let everyone know you're mine, sweetheart." Stiles can’t help but think that Peter sounds pretty fucking smug for someone who spent yesterday stuck at the local pound and peeing in his dad's garden. But then again, he can’t say he blames him.

He’s feeling pretty fucking smug himself.


End file.
